


Hereditatem

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lecter Castle, Married Couple, Misha Feels, Post Season 3, Romance, bedannibalprompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: This is not how Bedelia imagined it. She had pondered Hannibal’s childhood home on numerous occasions; from the memories he shared, she envisioned long, vacant passageways and rooms full of howling ghosts, but the reality was quite different.





	Hereditatem

This is not how Bedelia imagined it. She had pondered Hannibal’s childhood home on numerous occasions; from the memories he shared, she envisioned long, vacant passageways and rooms full of howling ghosts, but the reality was quite different.

The castle was vast and empty, yes, but above all, it felt strangely inviting from the moment she entered its hall.

Her steps echo loudly as she walks down the corridor as if the halls were announcing her presence to the rest of the house. She finds no shadows in the rooms, only forgotten pieces of furniture, ones that survived the war and all that followed.

She visits the rooms one by one, discovering the remaining treasures of the castle. The heavy cloth is removed in one smooth gesture, the dust particles circle in the air in sudden confusion, abruptly woken up from their deep sleep. Hidden underneath this cover is a dresser, dark, mahogany wood, standing obediently in the middle of the floor. Bedelia’s fingers trace its top and it seems to gleam under the pressure of her touch. The castle welcomes her being here.

“We can discard that if you wish,” Hannibal’s voice interrupts her thoughts. He enters the room and stands next to her, his hand joining hers, as he strokes the smooth wooden surface, perhaps trying to conjure images of things it witnessed. It is a relic of another time, lost and never expected to be found. Bedelia looks at him curiously, but does not see any melancholy within him.

“No, I like it,” she responds honestly; it is a beautiful piece in a pristine condition.

Hannibal smiles, “I am glad.”

Bringing the castle back from its shadows and restoring its beauty was his first order of business. Great number of people came and went, cleaning and mending, like an ongoing surgery that requires time and skills. Bedelia wondered if the haste had anything to do with his past, a need to brush out the recollections and paint over the hurt. But it was not the case at all.

“I want you to feel comfortable here,” Hannibal states one evening while they are lying in bed.

The grand bedroom is spacious and full of light; four-poster bed with newly fitted silk canopies appears almost too big with the two of them nestled together in its middle. The tall windows remain open and the evening wind ruffles the curtains with its gentle touch. It is still summertime, but the air is colder here than it was in any of their previous places of residence. Bedelia enjoys it; its freshness is like an invigorating stream of cool water that clears her mind. And she does not need to worry about being cold; Hannibal’s arms are wrapped tightly around her, the heat of his body as soothing as ever.

“I am comfortable here,” she rises her head from his chest and looks at him. His eyes brighten as she dispels his worry and Bedelia is touched that his main concern lies with her. Hannibal Lecter has chosen the living over the images in his memory palace.

She shifts to lie on top of him, her breasts pressing against his chest, just the way he adores it. Her locks fall on his cheek in a soft caress as she leans in to kiss him.

The wind outside gains strength and the curtains are swaying more prominently, moving in sync with the couple on the bed.

 

Hannibal steps into his new rule of the Count with gusto; Bedelia loves to watch as he talks with local people, the language of his childhood rolling of his tongue with ease, as if he had never left.

Bedelia stands by his side, listening to his words, enjoying the sound of his voice, deep and more pronounced than before. Soon she is no longer contented with observing, but wanting to participate as well. She knows that is what he wishes for too, but he does not mention it until she brings up the subject herself.

“ _Vanduo_ ,” Hannibal says slowly, pronouncing each syllable with care. They enjoy their evening bath together; the steam slowly suffuses the air with a sweet smell of bergamot, Bedelia’s head tucked under Hannibal’s neck.

“ _Van-duo_ ,” Bedelia repeats and then sighs, not pleased with her articulation.

“You are doing great,” Hannibal encourages her, “You will be fluent in no time.” He leans forward and kisses her neck.

“Hannibal, there is no need to be condescending,” she responds sharply.

“I am not,” he smiles and kisses her again, “You will be. We have all the time in the world.”

Bedelia unwinds, delighting in his touch and his promise; she takes a deep breath and slowly repeats the phrases he taught her so far, while his lips continue to caress her neck.

 “ _Nuostabus_ ,” he murmurs against her skin and this time she smiles too.

 

The autumn arrives suddenly with vibrant splashes of reds and orange. The whole grounds are bursting with colours of joy as if celebrating the return of its rightful owners.

Bedelia and Hannibal spend more time exploring the forest; they find plants that are still in bloom and unknown flowers full of fragrance despite the late time of the year. The nature is alive as much as they are.

“Had something caught your attention?” Hannibal asks, noticing her gazing out the window one morning.

“The colours are breathtaking,” she replies as he stands behind her and slips his arm around her waist, “I was thinking about the times when I was younger and pursued painting. This is an artist’s dream, all the shades waiting to be dissected and committed to canvas.”

“Why don’t you then?” he whispers into her hair.

“What do you mean?” the forest below them seems to shimmer with anticipation.

“Paint,” he states simply.

“That was a long time ago, Hannibal,” she turns in his arms, but meets a smile on his lips.

“And?” he asks playfully, “You can do whatever you want, Countess.” He takes her hand and kisses it, emphasising his words.

Bedelia gazes at him, still not fully convinced, but her heart beats with expectation. And she knows that he is right.

Two days later, she finds painting supplies laid out neatly by her vanity; brushes, paints, canvas, even one of Hannibal’s shirts. _To protect your clothes_ , the note on top of it reads.

She smiles as she inspects the ferrule and bristles, her fingers skimming over the brushes. Hannibal is aware of what she needs before her own mind gets there.

The easel is set up in the main sitting room downstairs, overlooking the forest, large windows framing the view perfectly. It feels strange at first, holding a brush, mixing the paint. Her hand hesitates, as she draws it close to the canvas, but as soon as it touches the surface, something unlocks in her mind. A strange muscle memory she did not realise existed. Soon, her strokes become more confident, her hand transcribing the colours and shapes that her eyes admire.

Hannibal joins her the next day, settling himself in an armchair behind her, silently observing her work.

Their new routine continues throughout the week; Bedelia paints and Hannibal admires her without a word. At times the silence is broken by a sound of graphite against the paper; Hannibal engages in art of his own and she is always his subject.

“Have you considered trading your pencil for a paint brush, Hannibal?” she finally asks him one afternoon, without turning around, her eyes still on the landscape outside the window, attempting to find the missing hues.

The scratching stops. “I did, actually,” Hannibal responds, “But I am in need of the right canvas.”

She turns then, eyebrow arched, not grasping the meaning behind his enigmatic response. Hannibal says nothing, his fondness for the dramatic as strong as ever.

But all is revealed when the evening arrives. The stone fireplace is brought to life, filing the room with heat and Bedelia lies on her stomach in front of it. Hannibal sweeps her hair over her shoulder, exposing her naked back. His fingers trace the curve of her spine, making her shiver, despite the warmth of the hearth. He then takes the brush and dips it in paint before bringing it to her skin. Bedelia flinches at the first contact with cold liquid, but it is soon replaced by an unexpected pleasure, as Hannibal’s hand moves in slow, long strokes, painting patterns on her back. The brush traces circles and spirals, perfectly following the natural lines of her back. The flames grow larger, crackling softly, eager to see the finished artwork.

Yet the painting does not get a chance to dry. The brushes are finally whisked away and Bedelia settles herself abreast his thighs like an immaculate statuette encased by the golden heat of the fire. She rises and falls languidly, and her neck arches as she leans back. Soon, the patterns on her skin turn into blurred smudges and imprint on Hannibal’s chest. His hands move from her hips to her satin breasts and to the heat between her legs, holding her close. Their flickering shadows dance across the walls until they are both spent and spilled. They stretch together on the soft rug, warm and content, while the hearth continues to spark merrily.

 

The cold settles in eventually, banishing the remnants of the foliage. The trees which were covered in garish leaves not so long ago, now appear crooked and menacing, silent envoys of dread.

Chiyoh left for Japan some weeks ago as if sensing the change in the air or perhaps testing the limits of her newly opened cage. Bedelia does not think she will return.

The winds howl stronger and louder, announcing the passing of the living and the arrival of the dead. The spirits buried deep within the castle finally wake.

Bedelia knows something has occurred the moment she steps into the hall. There is grave stillness in the air, one she did not sense here before. Her riding outfit still on, she merely removes her gloves and searches for Hannibal.

She finds him in their bedroom, sitting on the floor by the bed; an old, carved wooden box opened by his side and a collection of photographs laid out before him. His fingers clutch one of them and she can see his hand trembling.

“Hannibal?” she calls from the doorway, “Is everything all right?”

He raises his head to look at her, his eyes wide and glistening.

“Chiyoh left this for me,” he responds slowly, his voice close to breaking, “She told me to open it when I was ready.”

“You weren’t ready,” Bedelia concludes.

“No, I just-,” his voice shakes as his throat tightens, overwhelmed with sentiment, “I did not realise that these photographs existed.”

She walks towards him and sits on the ground besides him. He hands her the photograph and Bedelia gasps. It is a picture of two children, a boy and a girl. The boy is no older than seven, the girl is much younger. They are both sitting on what she recognises as the front steps of the castle, smiling broadly. The boy has his arm around his sister’s shoulder, a caring gesture. She has long, blonde hair. It is a black and white picture, but Bedelia can imagine her eyes, golden brown, the same as her brother’s.

“Misha,” she states and Hannibal barely nods, “She was a beautiful girl.” It is so strange to see a proof of Hannibal’s lost happiness. Bedelia’s fingers skim the picture, tracing the other figure, noticing the familiar features she knows so well. Not a monster, just a lost boy.

“You were a handsome boy too, no surprise,” her hand cradles his face, thumb tracing his sharp cheekbone, and it makes him smile. Her presence calms him and she feels him relax under her touch.

“I don’t remember that moment,” he admits reluctantly and she knows the realisation pains him deeply.

“You appear to be very young here. We are not able to recall all of our childhood memories, not even you, Hannibal,” she reassures him, “ _Particularly_ not you.”

He nods again, accepting her words. Bedelia looks at the picture once more; she had heard so many stories, she feels like she knows the girl in the photograph, a restless ghost that his brother had tried to summon back to life over and over again.

Her eyes fall on the remaining photographs, scattered on the floor like pieces of a puzzle or fragments of a broken heart. She takes one that has caught her eye: a woman holding an infant.

“Is that you?” she asks looking at the image of a chubby new-born and smiling, “Am I the first one to witness the baby pictures of Hannibal Lecter?”

Hannibal smiles back widely, his eyes no longer sad.

“Yes, and that is my mother,” he confirms, “She was a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she was,” Bedelia agrees, looking a slender brunette smiling to the camera. Her features were gentle, but aristocratic in some way. She looked happy.

“My mother would adore you,” Hannibal comments, shifting closer and putting his head on her shoulder.

“Would she?” Bedelia’s hand gently rests on his back.

“Oh yes,” he sounds almost excited now, the sorrow seems to slowly disperse, “And she would tell you stories about how she was a daughter of an Italian noble charmed by a Lithuanian stranger and whisked away to a faraway land.”

“Sounds oddly familiar,” she states nonchalantly and Hannibal chuckles, nuzzling her shoulder.

“My father would make sure you are treated right, saying jokingly that you are too good for me. And he would be right.” He lifts his head and stares at her heartfully.

“I am sorry you lost your home, Hannibal,” she knows that the words are hollow and wishes she could do more.

“I am home,” he responds at once and takes the photograph out of her hand, letting it fall on top of the others. He then gathers her in his arms and pulls her closer.

“ _Mano viskas_ ,” he whispers against her lips before kissing her deeply. Bedelia smiles and returns the kiss, grasping him firmly. This is more than enough.

They collect the photographs and put them away neatly in their box. Hannibal places it on a shelf in library; its memories are still an important part of him, but are no longer there to wound him. The spirits now rest in peace.

 

The snow begins to fall the next morning. The large flakes, each one different on its unique journey, decent unhurriedly, covering the ground in a calming blanket of white. The snowfall appears to be more substantial up here on the hill than it is in the surrounding villages. All roads but one become inaccessible, preventing unwanted visitors. The whole castle becomes enveloped in a protective cloak.

Bedelia and Hannibal cherish this gift of their time alone. Wrapped up in each other, they witness as the snow-covered structure encloses them completely, shielding them from the outside word. The castle walls soak up the soft sounds of their conversations and loud cries of their pleasure. The time seems to stop the way they always wished it would.

 

When spring comes at last, the heavy door of the castle opens and its owners emerge from their cocoon. The snow has finally melted and the nature arises from its hibernation.

Bedelia takes a deep breath, savouring the crisp air; she wears a long burgundy coat and slips on a pair of black leather gloves. She closes her eyes and enjoys the feel of the first sun rays skimming over her face. Her hair is loose, blonde locks reaching pass her shoulders now. There are traces of grey on her temples, but she looks more youthful than ever, her skin soft and glowing.

Her departure coincides with the arrival of the housekeeper; she sees the woman walking towards the door.

“ _Labas rytas_ ,” Bedelia welcomes her with a polite smile, as the short woman passes by her, watching her keenly.

Being a local resident, she has heard gruesome rumours of the new Count, but it is his wife who makes her feel more uneasy. There is something disturbing in her breathtaking beauty.

The Countess turns, waiting for her husband, who comes into view behind her, black coat around him. She extends her arm and he moves swiftly, a noticeable spring in his step, closing the gap between them, and taking her hand. They walk together towards the gate.

In the afternoon, the nearby village celebrates the end of winter. Many effigies of Moré are paraded down the street, straw figures with bits of clothes and ribbons, more impressive and numerous than usual. For whatever reason, the winter was exceptionally long this year and the people are eager to be rid of it.

Much later the effigies float down the river, blank stares of button eyes, lifeless bodies of the goddess of winter, making room for the arrival of new gods, not knowing that they were here all along.

That evening, a brilliant light of the chandeliers and soft waltz music fills the castle’s dining room as the Count and Countess glide across the polished floor. Their steps are silent; they appear to be floating on air. Her dress is a colour of deep amber, like a low-burning flame, matching the flare in his eyes as he gazes at her. They twirl intertwined, their movements smooth and tender, leaning onto one another as though their bodies were melting together. He holds her tight and she laughs when he dips her, just as he had done countless times before.

A glowing speck of light appears outside the window, soon joined by another and, all of a sudden, the air is filled with fireflies, flickering brightly as they fly, their own dance mirroring the one inside the castle. The illuminated garden can be seen from afar, as intense as the lights from the hall.

The castle rejoices. The new gods are here to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> The title means heirloom in Latin. This story was long coming; I wanted to return to Count and Countess for months, but was afraid I will ruin it. This concept is so dear to me and they are so glorious, it feels like they deserve better than my words could offer them.  
> I was wary of using Lithuanian and kept to single words, knowing Google Translate wouldn't get the grammar right (why can't you be Polish, Hanni?): vanduo = water, nuostabus = wonderful, mano viskas = my everything, labas rytas = good morning.  
> In my mind they are dancing to Abel Korzeniowski's "Melting Waltz" (from "Penny Dreadful"). It's elegant with a sprinkle of darkness and something mystical. The piano glissando at the end, that's the fireflies.


End file.
